


Smoke from Another Fire

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Midtown, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the world falls down</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke from Another Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

  
Gerard flicks his cigarette, watching as it scuttles along the metal track before dropping down onto the black-sludge coated boards. The burning ember glows hot and orange against the gray rocks between the slats before it fades to ash. He glances to his left, watching Gabe watch the distance, the trains in the yard belching smoke into the hazy sky. “A generation ago we’d be packing our lunches to take to the fucking plants around here, sucking cancer into our lungs for a living.”

“Yeah,” Gabe drawls. “Instead you do it for pleasure.”

“Fuck you.” He lights another cigarette and sucks the smoke into his lungs as Gabe throws a rock, watching it skip and hop through the dying grasses. “Now the plants are shutting down…”

“You sound like something from a Billy Joel album. That’s grounds for mocking.”

“Springsteen.”

“Not even.” Gabe tosses another rock and this time it ricochets off the rail and bounces back toward them. They both duck out of the way as it whistles over their heads. Gabe takes the moment to pick up his beer and take a long pull off of it. It’s cheap shit, but it’s all they can afford between the two of them. “Town’s dying. State’s dying. The scene’s alive. That’s the only fucking thing.”

“Not the only thing.” Gerard picks up a stick and burns the end of it with his cigarette, using the darkened tip to scratch at the ground. “Art.”

”Yeah. You’re shaking the world in its foundations right now.”

“Fuck you.”

“World’s gonna rot around us.” Gabe finishes his beer and crushes the can in his fist, tossing it down onto the tracks. “Burn up to a crisp before it blinks out of existence.”

“If you start singing _We Didn’t Start the Fire_ …”

“Fuck you.” Gabe shoves him sideways and Gerard goes with it, leaning on his elbow and looking back at Gabe. He’s wearing his regular smirk, though his eyes are bright in the sun. “We should though. Light everything around us in flames. Fuck, light ourselves up.”

Gerard nods and flicks his lighter, staring at the flame. “Bright enough to burn.”

*

The club is dark and hot and noisy, violating fire safety codes with the unrelenting press and slam of hard bodies. Gerard’s got a buzz humming through his body like feedback. His senses are overloaded and everything’s coming at different speeds from the thrashing guitars and pounding drums to the flickering lights of the bathrooms and the reek of booze and pot and sweat. He’s being bombarded and he loves it, throwing his head back to scream.

His throat pulses, the sound primal, ripped out of him like an exorcism. He gets slammed from behind and he shoves the crowd in front of him until the same demon possesses them all.

The live set ends and the house sound system comes back too loud, the Misfits screaming _Angelfuck_. The crowd doesn’t change much around him, trading scene kid for scene kid until it’s one clear plastic cup of beer or another. Gerard jumps in place, needing the energy to ramp up again. He recognizes the techs taping down the lines and wires and feels another jolt. He slams into the guy next to him and gets shoved back, slamming the guy on his other side. He ping-pongs back and forth until he’s the center of a maelstrom, out of control before Gabe and his band even hit the stage.

*

The bricks hum with the residual heat of the day, with the crashing throb of music inside. The joint burns hot and harsh between his fingers, raspy in his lungs until they open and stretch, expanding out of his chest. It tastes like sucking Jersey straight into his lungs, burning like fuck, cauterizing the fresh wounds with sludge.

He opens his eyes and opens his mouth, but it takes a moment before he exhales, his smoke tangling with the drift up from Rob’s cigarette. Gabe takes the joint from Gerard and sucks down his own hit, cheekbones sharpening on his inhale and cutting the air around him. Gerard wants to reach out and slit his wrists on them. “Good shit,” he croaks out.

Gabe swallows air, pulling the smoke deeper into his lungs, nodding all the while. “Fucking Mikey, man.”

It’s long since ceased bothering Gerard that Mikey is the go-to guy, the one who knows shit – who has what, when and where – and he just revels in the association. “No shit.”

Rob kills his cigarette under his heel. “Party at Paul’s tonight.”

“I fucking hate Paul,” Gabe reminds him.

“But you fucking love parties.” Rob pockets his lighter and drains his beer, shattering the bottle when he throws it in the dumpster. “Later.”

Gabe waves halfheartedly and takes another hit. “Fucking Paul. Fucking party. Fuck that shit.”

Gerard steals the joint back to kill the last of it. His throat is raw from screaming, which makes him want to do it more. “Who’s Paul?”

Gabe laughs once. “No fucking clue.” He picks a beer bottle up off the ground and throws it, watching the brown glass rain down. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t bother to ask where. “Okay.”

*

Gabe’s car is a fucked-up piece of shit that he can’t legally drive on a main freeway since it can’t go above thirty miles an hour. It gets them to the quarry though, the sliver of moon glinting off the black water. Gabe pushes in the lighter, digging a joint out of his jacket pocket. Gerard’s still feeling the last one and the half a bottle of Crystal Palace gin they’ve made their way through, so he watches as the lighter pops and then orange wreaths Gabe’s face, the crinkle of the paper catching fire loud in the quiet.

It seems like a lifetime before Gabe exhales. “Fuckin’ Mikey Way.” He hands Gerard the joint then crawls into the back seat, reaching up to pluck the joint back from Gerard’s hand. He licks his lips and Gerard watches it, watches _him_ moving in slow motion.

It rises up, beating at the base of his spine, spreading through him, just like the music, just like the smell of ink and charcoal and paper. He doesn’t question it, just clamors into the back and fits himself over Gabe, holding the hand with the joint away from them so that the only choice Gabe has is to inhale him.

Gabe’s free hand fists in Gerard’s hair and his nails scratch hard at Gerard’s scalp as he doesn’t just inhale him, he devours him. Tongue and teeth and aggression, anger and rhythm and lust drive his tongue past Gerard’s lips, fucking his mouth.

There’s not enough air to groan or moan or make a sound. There’s just Gabe, unrelenting. Gerard digs his own nails into Gabe’s wrists, smelling the heavy heat of blood as he breaks the skin. Gabe’s hand tightens and jerks Gerard’s head back, leaving them both gasping for air. Gerard raises Gabe’s wrist to his mouth, licking the small red crescents left by his fingernails.

“Fuck.” Gabe pulls him in for another kiss, biting this time, sharp hard jabs of pain each time he catches flesh. Gerard makes a noise of pure want and Gabe silences him, only the sound of them trying to breathe echoing in the car.

Gerard shifts, adjusting himself on top of Gabe, stilling as Gabe moves beneath him and spreads his legs, letting Gerard settle between them. His hips thrust forward and he shudders at the feel of Gabe’s cock against his, both of them hard beneath their jeans. Gabe’s hand moves Gerard’s head, tilting it to the side so his teeth can scrape at Gerard’s throat. Gerard doesn’t know or care where the joint has gone, too busy working his hand down to undo his jeans for some measure of relief. He gets lost along the way as Gabe sucks at his neck, distracted and disoriented by sharp teeth and the press of Gabe’s cock against his hand, more insistent in its thrusts.

Gerard gives up on his own jeans, working at Gabe’s instead as he pants achingly against Gabe’s shoulder. He gets the fly undone and pushes his hand past the denim, rubbing Gabe through his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah.” Gabe’s hips jerk upward as Gerard rubs him. Gabe’s head falls back, exposing his own throat and Gerard leans in, biting and sucking at the tender flesh. Gabe arches into him and Gerard can feel the fingerprints Gabe is leaving bruised into the back of his neck.

He gets Gabe’s underwear down, freeing his cock, and Gerard wants to look, to _see_ , but instead his eyes roll closed as Gabe’s hand works its way past Gerard’s fly. It’s fingers and pressure and his body bucks in response. He’s breathing hard, but he can’t feel his lungs. Can’t feel anything but the darkening skin of Gabe’s throat under his tongue and the pressure of Gabe’s hand on his cock and Gabe’s cock on his hand

“Off,” Gabe groans and Gerard’s surprised enough to move, but Gabe stops him, fingers catching in belt loops and denim and cotton pushed down his thighs and then skin. Hot and damp and slick and hard and curved and perfect against his, both of them thrusting desperately. It’s like being in the pit in the middle of everything with the guitars screaming and the bass pounding and the drums pulsing and the lyrics crashing until it’s blood and sweat and fucking nirvana exploding behind his eyes.

He’s still alive, so he knows he’s been breathing, even though he’s certain this is his first breath ever. Gabe’s eyes are closed and his chest is moving in the same rapid beat as Gerard’s. There’s a stench of burning canvas, and he can see the hole burned through the star of a Converse tennis shoe. He reaches down and digs out the joint, burning his fingers twice with the effort before he manages to grab it. He takes a hit then sucks his fingers as Gabe blinks up at him.

“You want to go to Paul’s?”

Gerard exhales and the smoke feels like it chars his raw lips. “I like a party.”

Gabe snags the blunt from him. “Fuck yeah.”

*

He can see the dust cloud. Can taste it in the air. He thinks about toxins and chemicals and Armageddon. And he writes a song.

H sings it into a crappy tape recorder, a handheld one that eats its way through batteries, killing the fucking Energizer Bunny with a chainsaw. He shoves it in his coat pocket, even tough it’s not that cold out yet, hunching down in the black fabric as he walks.

The train yard is quiet. Everything’s fucking quiet. It’s like all the noise and air have been sucked out of the country, the world and blown into New York. He sits down and lights a cigarette, watching as Gabe kicks a rock with his toe, starting an avalanche of pebbles. Gerard takes a few deep breaths of nicotine and then pulls out the recorder, handing it to Gabe. He sounds tinny and small to his own ears, far away as he sings about a broken city sky. Gabe rewinds and listens three times then hands the tape recorder back. Gerard wants to ask. He wants to demand. Instead, he just sits there, not sure what he’s waiting for.

“You really think there’s anything worth dying for?” Gabe asks finally.

Flashes of news reports and play-by-plays and smoke and dust and the world falling down come at him, like someone else’s life flashing before his eyes. “No. But I believe there are things worth living for.”

Gabe smiles and lies back on the brittle grass, his head pillowed on his hands. “I guess it all does come back to Billy Joel. We didn’t start the fire.”

“No,” Gerard agrees, lying down with his head on Gabe’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat instead of silence. He digs his lighter from his pocket and turns the fuel wheel, hitting the striker and sending up a five-inch flame. “But this isn’t his fire.” He wants to touch it to the grass and see the world turn orange. “This one’s all ours.”  



End file.
